Bloodline

by Jess Lourey

  I stroll up Belmont to River Street, the sunburn sinking a pleasant tightness into my flesh. Deck likes it when my skin browns. At the corner of James Street and Augusta, I pause to glance left at the Creamery, the largest building in Lilydale. It’s a buzzing concrete factory that processes all of Stearns County’s milk. Deck was proud when he told me, as if he were the one singlehandedly transforming raw dairy into neat, square cartons of milk.

  A soft smile creases my cheeks.

  Men. Needing to feel important.

  I’m nearly across Augusta when I glance at the Creamery one more time. From this angle, I spot a small crowd gathered at the edge of the railroad tracks. They remind me of a cluster of sugar ants on a crumb. I want to ferry Deck’s sandwiches to him before they turn in the heat, but my reporter’s instincts (when will Ronald set up my interview at the paper?) propel me toward the group. It’s such an odd place to gather, especially for folks dressed for business. What are they all staring at? Something on the ground.

  I itch for a pad of paper and a pencil. The ache of not working, of not telling stories, is sudden and strong. The emotion catches me off guard and dilutes the domestic bliss I was about to share with Deck. I suddenly feel queasy, a lotus-eater who should have been doing real work. Deck has allowed me a subscription to two newspapers—the Minneapolis Star and the New York Times—so I can stay abreast of world affairs, but I’ve been so busy painting and cleaning and building my nest that I’ve hardly opened them except to spread on the floor and catch the paint drips.

  If I’m honest, it’s not just that I’ve been busy remodeling. Lilydale is so soothing, so apart from the world. Race riots. War. Strikes. It’s somehow rude to invite all that ugliness here by reading my newspapers. The slow pace has even lulled me into letting Deck control my career rather than simply taking care of it myself.

  What the hell?

  Well, I’m waking up now. Whatever everyone is staring at, it’s directly on the train tracks, not alongside. Their legs part enough that I can see a flash of muscled, mangled red. I catch a whiff of something gamy.

  The smell raises the baby hairs on the back of my neck.

  CHAPTER 8

  A woman separates herself from the edge of the crowd just when I can almost make out what they’re circling.

  “Joan!”

  I recognize her from the first night I arrived—tuna noodle hot dish and crème de menthe squares—but the group of people staring silently at the ground has shaken me.

  “Mildred Schramel,” she says, accurately reading my face. “Teddy and I live down Mill Street from you, near the school. He works for the telephone company.”

  Browline Schramel and Mildred the Mouse, living inside a telephone. I’m ashamed of myself for forgetting her name, even for a moment. That’s never happened to me before. I hope my smile is polite. “Of course. I haven’t wandered in your direction yet.”

  Deck’s been encouraging me to get out, but other than necessary errands, I’ve kept to myself, just like I did in Minneapolis. I shake off my unease and point at the backs of the crowd ten feet away, their bodies clustered too tightly for me to see what they’re peering at. A dead animal, judging by the smell, but why in God’s name would they all be circled around it like that, just staring? “What’s happened here?”

  Mildred’s lips stretch but her eyes are doll-flat. “Just a poor dog hit by a train.”

  My stomach does a tumble. There must be a dozen people gawping at it. Not doing anything, simply staring. I crane my neck, trying to get a better look around Mildred, through the crowd’s legs. I catch my second glimpse of raw red, but also blue cloth.

  Oh no. Not a stray. A dog someone loved enough to smarten up with a bandanna.

  Mildred moves to block my limited view, her hands dropping on my shoulders. “This isn’t for a city lady to see.” Her eyes drop to my waist. “Especially in your condition.”

  My condition?

  The truth drives home like a punch. My pregnancy.

  Mildred knows. This drab woman I’ve met only once before knows my private business. How? My hand instinctively travels to my stomach, a gesture that Mildred misinterprets and rewards with a warm smile.

  Not so good at reading facial expressions now, are you, Mildred.

  “But you said . . .”

  “Said what?” I demand. I’m in the break room at Deck’s office, and I don’t like the daggers in my voice.

  “That you’d like people to know.” He appears genuinely distressed. “You said it that first night we moved in. In the bedroom.”

  The billowing sheets of anger make it difficult to see the truth of what he’s saying, but then I remember my words. I wish we could fast-forward to being done, being settled in, everyone knowing about the baby. But how to explain that I’d wanted him to hold me and tell me everything would be all right, not wrest away my fragile control?

  He must see the capitulation on my face. “It’s not like the city, baby,” he coos. “Here the women think being pregnant is a good thing.”

  “Deck!”

  His expression is pained as he unwraps his second sandwich—ham, onions, and Miracle Whip on white bread, his favorite. The waxed paper makes a rustling sound. “People were bound to find out sooner than later,” he’s saying. “You look great, you really do, Joanie, but you’re gonna start showing any day now. If we don’t tell anyone before then, it looks like we’re either hiding something or like it was an accident.”

  “But it was an accident!” I wring my hands.

  “I’m afraid this is all my fault.”

  Ronald’s unexpected voice from behind shocks me. My heart pounds, but I keep it cool on the surface. I won’t show him that I’m startled, will calm myself before I turn to face him. I’ve always been a cool head when angry. A stoic, everyone says. I’d be surprised if any Schmidt Insurance employees even noticed my rage when I came through the door, anyone except Deck. I had smiled at Becky (Blonde Becky, a receptionist as beautiful as a butterfly, she’d fall to the earth if she stopped smiling), nodded at the four men working behind desks. I recognized only one, the giant Clan Brody, as I took a seat in the break room, sitting primly until Deck finished a meeting in Ronald’s office.

  I didn’t let loose until we were alone.

  Thought we were alone.

  “I was the one who blabbed the good news,” Ronald continues from behind me, where he opened the door and slipped in as quietly as a snake. “You have to understand how a small town works. We’re a big family here. You don’t keep secrets from family.”

  I’m trying to hang on to my calm, but my hands are shaking beneath the table. I cannot unring this bell, and the powerlessness is unnerving. Deck is staring at his sandwich, the ham leering out like a tongue from the pillowy slice of bread. He’s leaving me to address Ronald alone.

  Very well. I swivel in my seat and stand to face Deck’s father.

  I’m shocked to see from his expression that he thinks he’s teasing me, that we’re all in on a big, harmless joke, that it doesn’t matter a whit that I wanted a job and identity before I become a mother in everyone’s eyes. When he holds out his arms, I’m so caught off guard that I walk toward them.

  “We’re so happy for you and Deck,” he says, wrapping me in his embrace. I stiffen when he buries his face into my hair, but I don’t pull away. With a Ronald hug, I’m learning, retreating simply isn’t an option. “Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from Him.” He chuckles, his laugh as gritty as his voice. “Guess the Schmidts have planted our stake in your real estate.”

  I take three full breaths before Ronald releases me. I don’t know about any of my body being real estate, but I can’t see any options. Be invisible when you can, harmless if they spot you. “Yes,” I say, patting my hair. “Deck and I are very happy.”

  “You bet you are. Nothing greater in this world than a child. Barbara and I’ve been meaning to have the two of you over to celebrate ever since Deck told us the
news. I’ll let her set that up with you.” He twists his arm to pull his wristwatch into view. “You should get going.”

  I bristle. “Excuse me?”

  Ronald ignores my question, glancing at my stomach, then Deck. “You have to understand—in my generation, pregnant women didn’t work.”

  I swell, soaking up anger like a towel dropped in water. Screw having a cool head. Before I can sound off, though, Ronald raises his hand, laughing more deeply this time.

  “Now, hold your horses before you lay into me. I was about to say that I understand you and Deck are from a different generation than me and Barbara. Deck told me you want to work, and I admire that. You want to contribute. I understand that. You women these days,” he says, shaking his head, smiling like he can’t believe what he’s about to say, “cooking for your husbands, cleaning, raising children, and working. If only we could build an army of you!”

  Deck nods, finally abandoning his second sandwich to stand next to me. “Joanie is an incredible girl.”

  “That’s what I told Dennis Roth over at the Gazette,” Ronald says, going serious. “It’s no big-city newspaper, but they do solid reporting. Now be a good daughter and head on over. He’s expecting you.”

  I put Dennis Roth at fifty, and he is the skinniest man I have ever laid eyes on, his fingers nearly as long as my feet, his translucent green eyes wide beneath unruly red hair. I don’t know what’s in the Lilydale water, but between slender Dennis and giant Clan, this town could staff its own traveling sideshow.

  When Dennis leaves his desk to greet me, he unfurls more than stands.

  Dennis the Daddy Longlegs, dispatching the news.

  “Mr. Schmidt speaks highly of you,” he says.

  I wonder why the formality and whether he’s referring to Ronald or Deck. Ronald, I suppose. Dennis almost sounds afraid of Deck’s dad, but maybe that’s just the way he speaks.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t stop by earlier.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing, except that it’s habit.

  Dennis indicates the chair in front of his desk and reclaims his own seat after I take mine. “My grandfather founded the Gazette in 1867, a decade after Johann Lily platted the town,” he says, stone-faced. “I’m pleased to say it’s grown since then.”

  I can’t tell if he has a sense of humor. I passed only one other employee coming in, a woman who I’d also put in her fifties, her hair tight and short and seemingly cut with the same pruning shears I used on my bushes earlier this morning. She appeared to be sleeping when I arrived, surrounded by stacks of the Lilydale Gazette leaning precariously, some with dates over a year old. The sound of the front door closing caused her eyes to snap open, like a robot who’d been activated. She studied me top to bottom and then jabbed her thumb toward a single office in the back.

  Dennis’s.

  There’s a closed door in the rear of it, which I assume leads to a bathroom, and an open one that I guess leads to the research and records room. Although, given the hurricane state of the main room, I can’t imagine what sort of archives they keep.

  “Journalism is an important business,” I say. Best to stick to vague facts until I can get a bead on him.

  “Indeed.” Dennis steeples his elegant fingers and rests his chin on them. “Your father-in-law says you need a job.”

  “I have a journalism degree from the University of Minnesota, and I’m an experienced reporter,” I say, not correcting his reference to Ronald as my father-in-law any more than I’d corrected Ronald calling me daughter. Pick your battles.

  Dennis nods. “You can start today.”

  My heart leaps. “Really?”

  “I trust Mr. Schmidt. If he says you can do the job, you can. We need someone to cover tonight’s elementary school music program.”

  The weight of the world settles onto my shoulders. For a brief moment, I thought I’d finally land my byline. At the Minneapolis Star, they’d confined me and the other female reporter to the Women’s News section. No bylines allowed there, just soothing stories of weddings and fashion and food. The handful of big stories I’d broken on my own, I’d had to hand off.

  “You’re not interested?” Dennis asks.

  My expression must be telling the whole story. I force a smile. “I’m delighted.”

  He drums his chin, long fingers scuttling like a praying mantis across his skin. “There are only two of us here. You met Mrs. Roth at the front desk. She handles the administrative duties and types up the occasional piece. I write the articles and edit. We’re a small-town paper, and there’s no hierarchy here. Whoever’s free takes what comes in. Right now, it’s the school program.”

  His newly kind tone warms me, resetting the whole interview, if that’s what you’d call this. “I’m thrilled, really. I was going a bit stir-crazy without work. Well, work outside of the house. This’ll give me a chance to see more of the town. To meet more of the folks.”

  Dennis’s eyes grow hooded. “And for them to meet you. You’re the talk of Lilydale. We don’t get much new blood here.”

  CHAPTER 9

  I spend the afternoon immersing myself in Lilydale’s businesses, determined to meet the locals head-on. It’s the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever done, but if it’s necessary to do my new job, I’ll do it. At Tuck’s Cafe, I order banana cream pie and coffee and ask the waitress about her day. Inside Morrell’s Ace Hardware, I ask for paint recommendations to touch up my exterior house trim, something I have no intention of doing. I check in on our mail forwarding at the post office, fill out a form to update my driver’s license address at the county office.

  Afterward, I stroll to Ben Franklin. I’ve stopped by there before, but this time I talk to the employees, feigning interest in the arts-and-crafts supplies they sell, selecting a new raspberry lipstick from their cosmetics department, exclaiming over their large display of penny candy behind the glass case, admiring the rack of enameled pins.

  I’ve hated every moment of it, exposing myself like this, becoming visible and open to judgment. I feel not only naked but skinned. My mom was right about small towns, but here I am, trapped in one, dependent on the goodwill of these people to keep my new job.

  The anxiety I feel causes me to do the most awful thing.

  When the Ben Franklin clerk is called to the front counter, I slip a cloisonné pineapple brooch into my front pocket. It would cost $1.99 to buy. I have the money in my purse, and if anyone sees me, all the goodwill I’ve been building will be gone. Forever. I dip my hand in to stroke the brooch, running my thumb across the surface. I hate myself for stealing, but I need it. Just the thought of putting it back on the rack makes me feel like spiders are crawling across my scalp.

  I’ll return it later, I tell myself.

  That’s what I always tell myself.

  The very first piece of jewelry I stole was at a five-and-dime where my mom worked, a store very much like the Lilydale Ben Franklin. We were living in San Diego, though not by the ocean, and I must have been old enough for school because I remember practicing cursive behind the five-and-dime counter and the smell of fat and waxy crayons when Mom would let me color.

  I loved watching her as she worked. She was so pretty, so sure of herself. Men would stop at the counter to ask about perfume for a sister or jewelry for a mother. Mom would help them, or at least I thought she did, except they kept coming back. It didn’t take me long to figure out they were there for her. Some of them even screwed up the courage to ask her out, but she always turned them down.

  “It’s just you and me, squirt, always,” she said once, turning to cup my chin after a particularly insistent man demanded she go to the movies with him.

  It swelled my heart to hear her say that, to see the tears in her dark-brown eyes, tears that proved she loved me more than anything. I wanted to pay that back. I saw my opportunity the next week, when a female customer approached her.

  “I need something truly special,” she said. “A beautiful piece of jewelry.”
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  The customer’s voice, ragged and wet, made me look up from the flappy-eared puppy I was coloring. Her face was swollen. Mom already had her hand on the woman’s. She was like that, my mom.

  “Of course,” Mom said. Even I knew that the five-and-dime didn’t have anything real nice, but Mom didn’t say that, didn’t look twice at the woman’s shabby coat, just treated her like she was the most important person in the store. “What did you have in mind?”

  “My husband left me,” the woman said, though Mom hadn’t asked. “Do you have anything gold?”

  Mom squeezed the woman’s hand and then ducked under the counter. She used the key at her wrist to unlock a cabinet, then came out with a scarlet box. I sucked in my breath and held very still, worried that if they remembered I was there, they wouldn’t let me see what was inside the gorgeous velvet box.

  Mom lifted the lid and took out a necklace. She held it up, a pea-size pearl dangling off a delicate gold chain. “Every woman should have pearls,” Mom said, “to remind ourselves that grit under pressure becomes beauty.”

  The woman clapped her hand over her mouth, her tears flowing freely. She paid for the necklace, counting out part of her money in coins, and had Mom clasp it around her neck before she left the store.

  When Mom took her cigarette break, I slid open that cabinet. She’d forgotten to lock it. Inside I found three more scarlet boxes. I took one for my mom because she deserved it, that’s what I told myself, but when I presented it to her the next morning, wrapped in the puppy page I’d colored, her face went slack.

  “Joan, where’d you get this?”

  I wanted to tell her that I took it because I loved her, because she never got nice things from anyone, because I didn’t want her ever to leave me. But I couldn’t utter a word.

  She made me return the necklace and apologize to her boss for stealing it. I remember his beetled brows, his angry red mouth, but I don’t recall if he fired her or if she decided to move on her own. We were in a new city by the end of the week.